Blonde Chameleon: Issue 7
by glubglubhonkhonk
Summary: In every story, there's a hero. There's a villain. And there's self-discovery. They're clearly defined literary concepts, even in all those comics Sam knows from cover to cover. But ending up in bed next to The Warbler has Blonde Chameleon rethinking everything he previously believed about the workings of his own personal story.


**Author's Notes**: Oops?

**Blonde Chameleon: Issue #7**

Sam Evans had no idea who he was. And as he gazed at the body lying next to him, shrouded in ghostly luminescence provided by the moonlight streaming through the window... he wasn't sure he wanted to. Did it matter, really? Who he was or whether he preferred his fingers to press into a soft curve or trace along hard lines of flesh? A man shall not lie with another man... It was always in the back of his mind, taunting him, scolding him like a prying parental figure that he could never exactly shake off. But the sweet, sharp taste of the whipped cream flavored Smirnoff that still lingered in his mouth helped press those thoughts further back, clouding the words and their archaic judgment, giving Sam just enough room for momentary apathy. That is, if the word 'apathy' were properly fitted to include the way his heart waltzed in his chest, beating so loudly that he slowed his own breathing and allowed saliva to gather at the base of his tongue so as not to make too much noise. Perhaps acquiescence was the better word, if only Sam knew that one.

He blinked in the dimness of the room, eyes trying desperately to gather every feature, every shape of the boy laying next to him, all the while trying his best to ignore the alcohol-induced itch in his nerves. The vodka streaming through his blood pressed his body forward, tugging him with alcoholic magnetism toward this other figure, but Sam resisted. Out of fear, mostly.

It had all started at the party. Sugar's party, in her rather extravagant home. Sam was used to houses that were bigger than his, but the Motta mansion definitely took the cake. It was delightfully Victorian, yet illogically modern at the same time, as if the architect had felt that moving into the future meant redesigning the past. He could dig it. It felt apropos for the superhero theme, decked out so lavishly that Sam wasn't sure if it would've belonged to Bruce Wayne or Ozymandias.

"Blonde Chameleon!" Sugar's high-pitch voice squealed as soon as Sam walked into the overly-furnished foyer, a signature Motta piano sitting dormant in the corner. "I'm so psyched you could make it. Drinks are in the parlor."

The party was a blur. There were so many people there, yet the size of the house diminished its impact. It at once seemed like too much and not enough, clearly a Sugar Motta extravaganza but tame compared to previous shindigs. The costumes were what made it stand out. Sugar's guests were all decked out in their finest polyester spandex suits, as per her order. Sam would hear Jake Puckerman deeming the entire thing "lame" and denouncing the whole night, but really, anybody would do anything to gain a pass to one of Sugar's parties. Sam thought it was cool, and he couldn't disguise the grin on his face as he sipped the sugary sweet mixture of flavored vodka and root beer from the plastic cup in his hands.

It didn't take as long to find Blaine as he'd thought it would. After getting a full cup of liquid liberation, Sam had set out to find his best bro with the accustomed knowledge that looking for the short brunette would be like searching for Waldo. But the feat was made significantly simpler by the donning of superhero-themed attire. Sam would recognize that Nightbird costume anywhere. And standing next to Nightbird was the figure that would become his later subject of synchronous fascination and trepidation.

"Didn't anyone tell you that you were supposed to dress up like a superhero?" Sam asked Sebastian, who was sporting his Warbler uniform. Well, his Dalton uniform that had become primarily associated with the Warblers in Sam's mind. He wasn't sure Dalton even offered anything else.

"I'm 'The Warbler'," Sebastian insisted with a lazy eye roll, the fingers of one hand making air quotes as he brought his cup to his lips. He sipped carefully at the drink, face torn between displaying an air of superiority or blasé contempt. Sam's eyes questioned Blaine's decision to invite Sebastian along, even as the two moved in for a friendly hug to greet each other.

"I'm trying this new 'forgiveness' thing," Blaine murmured once they were close enough that Sam could hear him without giving Sebastian the ability to listen in. "And he's trying to be nice." They separated and Sam gave Blaine a simple 'sure' before turning the conversation to more exciting topics – like the dude by the stereo that Sam was pretty sure played on the hockey team and his tiny, tiny problem made glaringly obvious by the tightness of his spandex shorts. They all reacted differently. Sam giggled in an impetuous, childlike manner. Sebastian smirked, raised a single eyebrow, and let a scathing comment fall from his lips. Blaine had the audacity to feel ashamed of his laughter, but that didn't stop it from pouring from his lips.

The night went on and Sam's body loosened as his mind clouded with alcohol. He wove in between superheroes and supervillains, side-stepping a Pepper Potts and ducking under a fist bump between the Green Lantern and Mr. Incredible. He made sure to spend time with each of his friends, trying his best to share the night evenly with the people he liked. But he always found his way back to Blaine, somehow. He had expected to find Sebastian at Blaine's side each time, but that was not the case. Sebastian was not hindered by any adolescent need to stick to the person he actually knew, instead daring to explore the party as a solo figure.

In the best comics, the story always makes sense in the end. Each piece adds up as though there's no way events could've turned out any differently than they do. Sam pictured his life the same way - a progression of cause and effect that created fate out of freedom. The hand that penned his story did so with careful attention to detail. So maybe if something that night had been different, what happened later would disappear. Maybe it would un-happen in the timeline of Sam's story. Change one panel, you change them all.

If he had spent less time migrating back to Blaine. If he had turned down Sugar's invitation to the party. If he'd never agreed to form the superhero group with Blaine in the first place. If he hadn't run for vice president at Blaine's side. If Blaine had never forgiven Sebastian for immature pranks pulled not even a year ago. If Sebastian had never turned up in the Lima Bean, appearing for the very first time in any connection to Sam's life. If Blaine had never left Dalton. If Kurt had never left McKinley. If Sam had never left Tennessee. If he'd gone to a public school all along instead of the all-boy's academy. If he had landed differently that time he fell out of the tree in his uncle's backyard. If his mother had agreed to marry the first man who proposed to her, instead of the second, who would become his father. Maybe then he would not have found himself where he ended up.

But those things happened the way they happened, forming a story and a person. A Sam, whoever he was, that ended up laying stock-still in bed next to Sebastian Smythe, trying his damnedest not to breathe too loudly.

In any case, as the night began to wind down and everyone's drunken movements became more sluggish than fancy-free, Sugar announced that whoever had a sober ride home should "bounce outta here" and whoever was planning to crash there should find a place to claim as their own. Sam had been standing next to Sebastian at the time, and maybe that was it. Maybe it was all a matter of timing and location. In that particular panel of his life, he'd been drawn next to The Warbler. It was pure accident. Coincidence. Fate. Whatever.

"Is Blaine driving you home?" Sam asked, forgetting in his stupor that he hadn't seen his friend without a cup in his hand all night. Sebastian simply laughed and motioned toward a nearby couch, where Blaine was unceremoniously sprawled out (stomach down, thankfully, so he wasn't gonna go all Hendrix on them).

"C'mon," Sebastian said, grabbing onto Sam's shirt (his jacket long ago discarded) and tugging him in the direction of the theatrically grandiose staircase. The blonde followed obediently, despite having no idea where he was being led. They ended up in a bedroom, not yet occupied by any other drunken teens. Sebastian shut the door behind them, locking it for good measure.

Maybe it was the alcohol, but something about this situation seemed weird. Sam had somehow ended up in a darkened bedroom with another boy after a night of consumption. To his altered mind, there was only one outcome of that.

"I'm not gay," he quickly said, peering through the darkness as Sebastian carefully began to undress. There wasn't much light in the room, only a single window through which the moon shone, so it wasn't easy to see the other boy, but Sam could just make him out.

"Congratu-fuckin-lations," was the reply he received. Sam furrowed his eyebrows, confused by the response.

"I just mean..."

"That you don't want to have sex with me?" Sebastian finished for him, shimmying out of his pants until he was only wearing a t-shirt and boxer briefs. "Oh, woe is me." It wasn't difficult to detect the sarcasm in his voice. "Look, I was being friendly and finding us a place to crash that doesn't reek of vomit, but if you're so set on the idea that I'm a sexual predator, you can get fucked." He inspected the bed before he crawled into it, having no idea who it belonged to. "Not literally, of course," he added as an afterthought, turning on his side and facing away from Sam. He seemed vaguely offended, which was strange, and Sam had to take a moment to process what was going on.

It had probably been rude to assume that Sebastian dragged him here in order to get busy. But could Sam really be blamed for thinking that? Previous to that night, Sebastian had sort of become a mythical figure in his mind. He was rapacious, oleaginous, and all manner of words Sam found impossible to define except for that Sebastian _was_ them. It also didn't help that Sebastian had totally hit on him earlier that night. Something about lips or abs... some part of his body. In the haze of his mind, he couldn't exactly remember now. But Sebastian had definitely implied _something. _

He did feel exceptionally bad now though, regretting his reaction to the circumstances. He wasn't that kind of guy. He didn't care about this stuff. With a small 'sorry', he began to peel off what remained of his costume, leaving himself in just a pair of Halo boxer shorts, not in line with the theme of the night but the only pair he had left that was clean. He slid in bed next to Sebastian, who flipped over onto his back, though not reactively.

And there they were.

He waited for a long time. He laid there staring at the ceiling as though it were the night sky and he could pick out each and every constellation. He was at once lost in his thoughts and acutely aware of the presence next to him. The noise from the rest of the house gradually quieted, though Sam didn't notice for a while until it seemed as though all sound had shut off at once. He rolled onto his side, facing Sebastian. The mythical figure. The supervillain. Or maybe, Sam thought as he reflected back on the error in judgment he'd made before, maybe just a guy.

He had no idea what he was doing, staring at Sebastian through the darkness like this. There was a nice ironic touch to it – Sebastian being the one to sleep innocently on his side of the bed while Sam battled the urge to touch him.

Because Sebastian was definitely asleep now, his chest rising and falling evenly with each breath, the tiniest snore every time he breathed in. Blaming it on the alcohol, Sam finally moved closer. His movements were agonizingly slow and he stopped whenever he felt like Sebastian might be waking up. But he never did, and eventually Sam's body was so close to Sebastian's that he could feel the heat emanating between them. He stopped again, just for a moment, trying to find the inhibition within him that he'd lost with the third cup of vodka. But it was hiding well. Sam's hand reached out and laid gently on Sebastian's stomach. Still, he didn't awaken.

Mind now bent on getting what it wanted, whatever that was, Sam's hand slid to the hem of Sebastian's t-shirt, cautiously pushing it up. Sebastian's skin was warm under his calloused guitar-playing fingers, his stomach soft and firm at the same time. He must've played some kind of sport, but Sam couldn't name which one. There were a lot of things he didn't know about Sebastian. He moved forward.

When his lips pressed daringly against Sebastian's stomach, any ounce of apprehension or restraint that may have stopped him fell from his mind, replaced by pure drunken whim and boyish desire. He trailed kisses along a random path, touching every uncovered part of Sebastian he could. His mind didn't even register the change in Sebastian's breathing pattern, too concentrated on the feel of the body under his mouth. He flicked his tongue out over a freckle he could see through the dark and his hand moved the t-shirt further up, trying to expose more of Sebastian's body. But it was caught between the brunette and the bed underneath him. Sam felt disappointed for a second before Sebastian's body consciously lifted, just slightly, allowing Sam to tug the shirt up.

Sam's eyes immediately shut, his face lingering over the bare torso beneath it. Sebastian was awake and that was terrifying, the emotion catching Sam's lungs and squeezing them shut so that breathing was suddenly near impossible. Sebastian was motionless underneath Sam again, but Sam couldn't deny what had just happened. A slight movement. A signal of consent. He swallowed, the act loud in the otherwise silent room and, eyes still closed, pressed his lips against Sebastian again, higher this time.

It was suddenly an actual thing instead of just a small act of curiosity. Sam kept his eyes closed, unwilling to look up and see if Sebastian's were open. He had an audience now, a spectator, a partner to the crime he committed in the dark. Now that he knew Sebastian could feel what he was doing, he became all too aware of how _good_ it was. He wanted Sebastian to squirm underneath him, to murmur unintelligibly as Sam's warm tongue slid across his skin.

He had always been relatively good at this with girls. He'd been praised by the few he'd ever been with. Quinn. A nameless woman in Kentucky. Mercedes. He drew on these experiences as he traveled Sebastian's body. His tongue swirled around a nipple, but it didn't elicit the response he'd been looking for. He felt a little dumb for believing it would. There was still a body beneath him, but this one moved differently, reacted in other ways. Sam had a male body too, he knew what things felt like to him, so there shouldn't have been any confusion. He huffed a little bit at his own incompetence, and that was when Sebastian finally moved. _Really_ moved. His hand came up and brushed lightly through Sam's hair, encouraging him, soothing the self-deprecation that threatened to ruin everything.

It was an uncharacteristically sweet thing to do. He expected a snarky comment or an exasperated groan, maybe. But there he was again, treating Sebastian like a character in a comic book. He pushed the thoughts away, refocusing his attention on scraping his teeth along Sebastian's ab muscles. His lips, teeth, and tongue came dangerously close to the edge of Sebastian's boxer briefs quite a few times, and it was one of those times that Sebastian sat up.

Sam could feel the muscles move underneath him, the skin of Sebastian's stomach folding just slightly against his mouth. "Not gay?" he heard, and there was that snark. Sam furrowed his eyebrows, the expression pressing against Sebastian's body and telling him more than Sam's words were willing to. He moved further down, bypassing the area he feared most at the moment and instead settling just below it. Sebastian's breath hitched as Sam's teeth nipped at the very light hairs on the inside of his thigh, his leg twitching as if with the desire to kick Sam in the head. But instead, he slid careful fingers along Sam's jaw, nudging him upwards. Sam complied, sitting up but not opening his eyes.

"Eyes open," Sebastian ordered, hand still resting on Sam's face. The words sounded enticing, like the witch telling Snow White to bite from the poisoned apple. Or the snake and Eve, maybe. He guessed that was more befitting. Open your eyes and you'll know everything. Open your eyes and defy God. So he did.

His eyes finally met Sebastian's through the dim light afforded to them through the window, and once again, he was caught off-guard. There was no smirk, no self-satisfied eyebrow quirk. Sebastian's face was soft, bearing an emotion Sam couldn't place. It almost appeared forlorn. They were both drunk and it seemed to be exciting within them certain feelings and ideas that their sober minds kept locked away. "Good boy," Sebastian whispered, and it was like the words shot straight through Sam's body, an electric current waking him up as their lips finally met.

And it all came back to this something inside him, this feeling he had and ignored whenever his gaze lingered a little too long on someone it should not. As Sebastian licked into his mouth, he felt the culmination of every passing thought, every secret prayer, every delayed stare. A secret identity inside of him, his Clark Kent versus his Superman, a double life, two opposing forces that didn't seem congruous existing in the same person.

They laid back again, together this time, Sam slipping in between Sebastian's legs. They kissed and it was sloppy and not spectacular, but it made something burn inside Sam's chest. Sebastian tasted like alcohol, some sort of salty snack food, and that inescapable human flavor that tinged everybody's tongues. He had actually started to move a lot more now, his own hands rising up to rub and scratch along Sam's bare torso, legs tangling around Sam's calves. It was goddamn unbearable.

He could feel familiar stirrings in his body now, biological signs pointing to all the things he wanted to do to the body beneath him. He wasn't hard yet, but that was always more difficult with alcohol, and he had no doubt that his body would get there. Especially as Sebastian groaned low in the back of his throat as Sam tugged his bottom lip with his teeth. It was all different, everything, the way Sebastian moved and the sounds he made. He didn't whimper or whine like a girl, though Sam liked that just as much. His noises were throaty and deep, more demanding than pleading, and they hit Sam's nerves like nitrous.

As he moved, rolling his hips down and giving them both that beautiful friction, he could feel Sebastian hard against him. It was an impossible feeling, making his heart beat rapidly in his chest and was the room this hot before? At the same time, the guilt crept back, standing in the shadows of his mind and reminding him that this was supposed to be wrong. It was a sin, his mind reminded him. The pleasure coursing through his body and pressing his hips down into Sebastian's with a rolling rhythm was wrong. He was Anakin, two forces inside him pulling one way and another. But the way Sebastian rocked under him felt so fucking good that he honestly could no longer tell the difference between the two. Light and dark. Good and bad. The lines were blurred.

He tried to draw a fictional comparison in his mind. Had there been a character he encountered that would make any of this clearer? Somewhere in all those images, was there a pious man philosophizing as his tongue drew ancient circles along the sharp hills of another man's hip bones? But he was coming up blank. He had no reference level, no story to draw from. It was just Sam, in the real world, sucking gently on a spot just above Sebastian's hip while he made soft noises beneath him. There was nothing else, no make-believe precedent. Nobody was penning Sam's comic. He was the one pressing a hand against the hardness that stretched the fabric of Sebastian's underwear. He was the one using his fingers to hook underneath their waistband, sliding them down with just a bit of resistance. He was the one whose fingers moved to lightly touch this other boy's dick, exploratory despite it being nothing he hadn't seen before. There was no Stan Lee. It was just Sam, the author of his own story.

It was possible that he was overthinking this, worrying too much for what it was worth. Making Mount Olympus out of Bag End. Sam had always had a habit of seeing himself like the hero of an epic tale, but that was at odds with the truth. Because this wasn't such a shattering ordeal; it was just a silent slip into something he could not fight.

Which part of this was wrong, he wondered. Was it the sight of Sebastian's stomach muscles jumping at the feel of Sam's hot breath ghosting against his sensitive skin? Was it the taste of him, as Sam's tongue swiped experimentally around the head of his dick? Was it that? Sebastian's cock in his mouth and the amateur way his teeth accidentally bumped along its sides? Sebastian's fingers curled into the blanket beneath them, and Sam wondered if that was it, how every gentle suck or slide of his lips could move parts of Sebastian's body that he wasn't even touching. He slid his tongue along Sebastian's length, bobbing his head up and down, his hand squeezing the parts he couldn't reach, and maybe it was wrong the way Sebastian gasped "faster" and grabbed a fistful of his hair. Or was it simply wrong to comply? His jaw ached as he worked his mouth around Sebastian's cock, no grace or skill involved really but that didn't stop the contraction of Sebastian's thighs or the way he slapped the side of Sam's head to warn him. Sam didn't pull back soon enough and then Sebastian was cumming in his mouth, the feeling and the taste both all too new and not entirely pleasant or unpleasant. He pulled back, feeling like he wanted to swallow because he'd always thought that was what you were supposed to do, but most of it just dribbled from his mouth and down his chin.

Sebastian's body fell slightly limp against the bed, his only signs of life the heavy breathing as he recovered. Sam battled with the desire to wipe the cum off his chin and the objection to having it on his hand. Would Sugar hate him if he just wiped it on the sheets? But then Sebastian was sitting up and he didn't seem to care about the state of Sam's face because they were kissing. Sebastian maneuvered around Sam, switching their positions until Sam was the one with someone else on top of him.

When Sam was laying on his back with Sebastian hovering over him, all thought of wrongness or blame or guilt was vanquished by an expert mouth around his dick. He was so much better at this than Sam, who sucked in a sharp breath, hands over his face. Lips dragged along his shaft, a tongue swirled in the precum that leaked from his tip, and when Sebastian relaxed his throat and buried his face in the curls at the base of Sam's dick, the "oh God" that ruptured from his chest and out his throat was far from a prayer.

It was over rather quickly, Sebastian managing to swallow without much trouble, but Sam didn't have the energy to be embarrassed. As Sebastian sidled up next to him, he realized they were now on opposite sides of the bed from where they'd started. Sebastian was gazing at his torso much in the way he had at the beginning of the night, eyes scanning the abs he spent so much time perfecting and the redness that slowly faded from his skin as he came down post-orgasm.

Like every good fictional hero at the end of their tale of self-discovery, Sam tried to reflect back on what he'd gained from the whole adventure. But he was drunk, and suddenly very tired, and the villain-not-villain next to him was laying down close enough that their arms touched.

So instead of revelation, instead of epiphany, the last panel simply faded to black.


End file.
